


Another Day, Another Night

by daisylore



Series: In a Borrowed Bedroom [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Erotic Dreams, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Wet Dream, normally professional people panicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:26:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7798234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisylore/pseuds/daisylore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow-up to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7584178"><em> In a Borrowed Bedroom </em></a> starting the next morning. A story in which Arthur realizes he had a wet dream while sharing a bed with Eames. (written for the kink bingo prompt 'erotic dreams', I tried)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Day, Another Night

**Author's Note:**

> The amazing [oyonok](http://oyonok.tumblr.com/) was lovely enough to draw my Inceptiversary request for the image the last part of this story ended with. You can see it, and other wonderful art, [here.](http://oyonok.tumblr.com/post/148600869486/could-i-please-get-arthur-and-eames-in-bed)

_Oh my god._

Arthur lies awake in bed. He is silent and completely still, trying not to wake Eames, who is asleep next to him. This cannot be happening.

_Oh my god._

Arthur knows they didn’t do anything last night. He and Eames seem so frustratingly far from that, and besides, Eames is wearing all of his clothing, and so is Arthur.

It’s just that, underneath Arthur’s clothing, there is damning evidence of a nocturnal emission.

Arthur went and had his first wet dream in over ten years while sharing Eames’s bed.

_Fuck._

Not to mention that, when he first awoke, he was dangerously close to Eames. They were mere inches away from cuddling. Thank goodness Arthur wakes up earlier than Eames. If he had opened his eyes to see Arthur sprawled over him, Arthur would have been absolutely mortified.

It’s not that Arthur doesn’t want Eames. He’s just incredibly nervous about overstepping Eames’s boundaries. While Eames flirts constantly and lathers his personality with bravado whenever he’s in a group, Arthur is pretty sure he’s actually more prim and proper than he’d care to admit. Eames is, without a doubt, the only person he’s ever worked with in dreamshare whom he has not seen returning to the warehouse in yesterday’s clothes, or escorting a one-night stand out of their hotel room early in the morning. He doesn’t seem like the type who starts a relationship with someone by falling straight into bed with him.

It’s not that Arthur has been paying attention or anything. It’s in his nature to notice the details. That’s his job, after all.

So, honestly, when Arthur thinks about making his move with Eames, it doesn’t really involve rubbing himself against their shared mattress until he comes. Well, at least, he’d be sure to buy Eames dinner first. Arthur can’t really make any promises about controlling himself if he ever gets Eames into bed, apparently.

The dried come in his underwear seems to make that pretty clear.

Yesterday, Arthur was honestly excited about rooming with Eames. He just didn’t plan on it happening this way. He imagined it going slowly. They would spend most of this job just lying on the bed together, staring up at the ceiling, having deep meaningful chats and just fucking connecting. And only then, when it was clear that they were invested in one another, Arthur would have to worry about making his move, about leaning in for a soft, chaste kiss or even just flat-out asking him.

Now, Arthur has to worry about how he’s going to clean his boxer-briefs in their shared hotel bathroom without Eames noticing. Arthur rifles through possible other excuses in his head. He wet himself? Worse. Makes him seem infantile. He’s on his period? No, he doesn’t get those. Well, Arthur could have a vagina for all Eames knows, but it doesn’t seem like a wise lie to tell, seeing as Arthur wants to get Eames into his pants someday, and nobody likes an unexpected penis (well, Arthur doesn’t, at least; as the recipient of a single unsolicited dick-pic, he considers himself the recipient of one too many). He noticed they were already stained? That would immediately evoke semen anyway, so the lie wouldn’t even be worth it.

Yeah, there’s no easy way to explain this.

Maybe he’d wash them while he was in the shower, and then hang them up to dry and claim that they got wet when the bathroom floor flooded. Of course, then he’d also have to drench his other clothes, and actually flood the bathroom, which seemed like more trouble than it was worth. It would also have the effect of making Eames think that Arthur, who could disassemble and reassemble his Glock in under a minute, didn’t know how to operate a shower door.

There’s only one way out of this.

Arthur goes to the bathroom, takes off his underwear, and throws it in the trash.

Honestly, this isn’t a great morning for his pride.

++

God, what if Eames can tell? Or what if he’d seen it last night?

_Fuck fuck fuck._

And now, every time he looks at Eames, he can picture those lips wrapped around his dick.

 _So much for professionalism on this job, then_ , Arthur panics.

He could probably handle it if he just ignored Eames for the foreseeable ever, but if he does that every time Eames’s presence distracts him, pretty soon he would seem so cold and rude that Eames would eventually stop flirting. And that is _not_ the plan.

Not that Arthur knows what the plan is anymore.

++

The team elected to work in the school auditorium. It’s Christmastime, so they were pretty sure it would be unoccupied for the next few weeks, and Eames was nothing if not a skilled lock picker. Arthur and Eames set up camp as the rest of the team trickled in.

“How was the first night of the honeymoon, boys?” Ariadne asks as she walks in. As always, she’s clutching her latte (triple shot, Arthur remembers), and she’s in a pretty chipper mood.

Arthur freezes up a little, not wanting to mention the awkwardness of their morning. If he tries hard, he can describe it as having occurred in a companionable silence, but there was definitely a weird tension in the air, and he wasn’t sure if it was just him, or if Eames could feel it, too.

He looks directly at Eames. Eames would save him in this conversation. If anything, it’ll be weird if Eames doesn’t make some joke about their marriage bed or whatever.

Eames is uncharacteristically silent.

Fuck. Eames knows that it was awkward, too. _Please don’t let him have figured out why._

Ariadne looks at Arthur quizzically.

“Eames hurt his back carrying me over the threshold, so he’s not in a joking mood right now,” Arthur says, letting out a small breath of relief about diffusing the situation before it could become unbearable.

Not that Ariadne hasn’t noticed. “Very funny,” she says, neither laughing nor smiling. She stares at the pair of them for a moment longer before unpacking her bag.

++

By lunchtime, the air between Eames and Arthur seemed to have calmed. Working with the team was always good at getting them both talking – even sparring a little, as they always do. Eames disagreeing with him about strategy is as reliable as the tides, and while Arthur kept his mouth shut during Eames’s first pitch, Dom alerted him with a confused-enough squint for him to jump back into gear.

All is surprisingly okay, then, by the time they make it back to their hotel in the evening. They stopped for take-out from a local bar on the way, and they speak amicably as they eat at the small coffee table in their room. And, like Arthur wanted, they talk late into the night, all about their first big jobs, when they were young, poor criminals who’d suddenly had large sums of money fall in their laps. Eames, it turns out, bought an apartment with an indoor hot tub. He didn’t realized how rarely, if ever, people in dreamshare got to go back to their permanent residence. He had to sell it a few years later, seeing as London would always be the first place anyone looked for him and he had purchased it under an alias that had long before been made.

Arthur bought a car. It wasn’t some bright red, mid-life-crisis-type sports car. It was an old vintage one whose workings had been redone. Arthur loved it, but, similar to Eames’s mistake, he didn’t get to use it that often. It lives most of its life in a long-term garage in western Massachusetts.

They joke amicably about their poor decisions. Nowadays, Arthur’s money mostly goes to a combination of savings funds and real estate, which has the added bonus of giving him plenty of flats around the world that he can call home. With most of it safely invested, the rest is just for living off of, and Arthur does pretty well for himself, usually spending it on attire and the odd fancy meal.

Eames apparently invests in paintings. He keeps them all around the world in his various apartments, too – now kept under fake names he never uses on the job, so he never has to abandon them. Arthur initially finds it funny that a forger would spend his life collecting originals. Eames talks about them as assets, but to Arthur, it seems clear that he values them for more than their monetary worth.

Arthur tests the waters and asks if he can see them sometime. Eames smiles and says yes, then pauses and adds that he’d love to see Arthur model his suit collection someday. Arthur laughs and throws the plastic spoon he’s been fiddling with at Eames’s head before continuing the conversation.

They go to bed at about an hour past a reasonable time to go to sleep, and all is finally going exactly as Arthur planned.

And then Arthur has the dream again.

++

It isn’t exactly the same dream. There are plenty of small differences, but two really stick out to Arthur.

Firstly, they aren’t by the ocean anymore, they’re in their little shared room in Alaska, Arthur’s bare skin resting against the red checked sheets.

Secondly, this time, Eames also has two fingers moving slickly in and out of him, making Arthur’s toes curl in pleasure.

“Uh, Eames?”

“Yes, darling?”

“What are we doing?”

“Don’t worry, Arthur, just relax.” Eames slips down for a second and then presses his tongue gently into Arthur’s opening.

++

Four days later and four more dreams, all fairly similar. He even tried sleeping on his back the last two nights, but a lifetime habit of sleeping on his stomach was apparently too hard to break, and both times he just flipped over in the middle of the night and the inevitable occurred.

Long story short, Arthur is almost out of underwear.

Every day is roughly the same. The mornings are odd. Eames always stares at him for a moment too long, as if he is about to say something but then changes his mind every time.

That evening, Arthur woefully grabs his last pair of underwear out of his suitcase and makes for the bathroom to change – he’s started going commando during the daytime, so he doesn’t end up wearing any given pair for too long – when Eames suddenly breaks the silence.

++

“Arthur, I get them too. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“What?” Arthur stutters.

“That kind of dream,” Eames says quietly. He thinks he may always be a nervous fourteen year old at heart, too self-conscious to actually say these things aloud. He almost didn’t manage to speak up, but at this point he has to say something, because _he’s_ too embarrassed to let this go on. He can’t even imagine how Arthur feels, but however it is, he’s certain he doesn’t want Arthur to feel that way. “So, uh, maybe don’t worry about washing out your pants? I won’t judge you.”

Arthur looks like he could die right now.

“Really, it’s perfectly natural,” Eames adds quickly, his face as red as Arthur’s.

“I – christ, Eames, I can’t believe you have to see this.”

“It’s okay, darling – at the very least, you’ve proved that your imagination isn’t lacking,” Eames manages to banter, smiling.

“No, the dreams have all been mostly the same,” Arthur admits, his dignity resigned to a forced early retirement.

Eames chuckles. “Yeah, I get recurring ones, too. There’s one I’ve had about two dozen times now.”

“Who’s it about?”

"Harrison Ford.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“I liked Han Solo,” Eames mumbles. “Everyone has a film or TV character that triggers their sexual awakening. That was mine.”

Arthur snickers a little. Eames sort of wants to remind him right now that Arthur doesn’t have a leg to stand on with respect to embarrassment in this conversation, and he almost misses Arthur saying, “ _The Princess Bride._ Westley.”

“Excellent choice, darling.” He can see Arthur trying to hide his wide smile (complete with dimples, what a treat) as he saunters off to change for bed.

“Eames?” He asks, sticking his head out of the bathroom door.

“Yeah?”

“Uh, thanks. You know, for being so mature and not teasing me about this.”

“Yeah, of course,” Eames says. Luckily Arthur closes the door then, so he can’t see Eames blushing beet red.

Okay, that conversation could have gone much worse, Eames thinks. He shakes his head at himself and changes into his pyjamas.

When they’ve both crawled under the covers, Eames turns around a little until he finds a position in which he is comfortable, and then gives one last glance towards Arthur. “Sweet dreams,” he says, his voice a little teasing.

“Fuck you, too, Eames,” Arthur says softly, full of mirth and fondness, as he rolls over onto his stomach, clutches his pillow, and closes his eyes.

“As you wish,” Eames replies.

++

The next morning is different. Arthur awakens to find himself wrapped around Eames, but, mortifyingly, that is nothing new. What has changed is that, this time, Eames is, in his sleep, rubbing himself against Arthur’s leg.

Ideally, Arthur would stay very, very still. But, unfortunately, his dick has other plans, and as soon as he comprehends what Eames is doing, his hips jerk forward, jolting against him.

He can’t believe that any of this is happening when Eames’s eyes fly open and meet his.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading!


End file.
